Smoke
by lizziebennetgonesolo
Summary: A oneshot in which the Doctor contemplates Ashildr's warning and desperately tries to dismiss his own words concerning premonition, to no avail. May post more oneshots and twoshots on the subject of Clara's departure.
1. Premonition

**A/N: So. This popped into my head and I had to get it out. If you're coming from TLOKKS, don't worry; I will get back to it eventually, so please be patient with me. I felt an urgent need to write this, though, so here it is.**

 **Anyways, some info on me: I'm a devoted Whovian, and I absolutely love series 9 so far. I personally think that Peter Capaldi and Jenna Coleman are a splendid Doctor-companion team, and I love both of their characters individually as well. Clara was the first companion I ever saw with the Doctor, too - my first episode was the 50th anniversary special - so she holds a very special place in my heart, and even after watching most of NuWho and growing to love the other companions, Clara remains my favourite. However, as a writer and a fan of the show, I think, as do the show's writers from the looks of things (although Jenna Coleman's departure dictates some kind of exit for Clara, regardless), that it is her time to go, and by go, I mean die.**

 **Clara has overstepped her role as the companion; she's lost a lot of her sense of self-preservation and has become reckless as opposed to simply brave. On top of that, I think she feels a kind of misguided invulnerability. She has taken on a slightly modified version of the Doctor's role in addition to her own as his companion, and this without taking into account a crucial detail: she is not a Time Lady. She is human. And humans do not have regeneration cycles to fall back on when they land themselves in mortal peril. Not only that, but while Clara is brilliant, again, she is not the Doctor; she does not have the same mental capacity that he does to get herself out of a tricky situation, stunningly clever though she may be.**

 **I think she's going to try to do too much, and that it'll come back to bite her - hard. M** **ost people who watch the show would agree with me when I say that there is a growing sense of foreboding surrounding our lovely Impossible Girl, and there have been plenty of hints and foreshadowing around her departure (in whatever form it may come). I mean, for goodness' sake, the 10th episode of the series is called "Face the Raven". I think that's fairly telling. There is a slight possibility that we're all being duped, but somehow, I don't think so, and to boot, I really hope not. As much as I adore Clara, I think that for her storyline to be done justice, she needs to die.**

 **With that in mind, I wrote this piece, because I think the Doctor knows that something is coming for Clara, and that it's not good. This is inspired by a YouTube fan video called "The Doctor & Clara - Where is My Mind" on the Doctor Who Hub channel. Without further ado, read on. I hope you enjoy the piece.**

 _ ***?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?***_

 _"Well don't worry, daft, old man. I'm not going anywhere."_

Clara's words sounded in the Doctor's mind, playful and supposedly soothing, entwining themselves with another, less comforting assurance.

 _"She'll die on you, you know. She'll blow away like smoke."_

Ashildr's bitter utterance haunted the Doctor, as did the woman herself. She was one of his greatest mistakes, made in a fit of Time-Lord-Victorious-like arrogance, in a wave of the kind of misguided euphoria that comes with possibility.

A hybrid, robbed of her own humanity by a Mire chip, the centuries that followed its installation, and the one who installed it in the first place.

Ashildr, whose pain at losing those whom she loved drove her to self-isolation, to rely on herself as her only companion. She became Lady Me, her own imaginary friend in a sense, a comrade to combat the loneliness. Me was a persona, a mask not unlike the one Ashildr wore as the Knightmare.

And yes, he still called her Ashildr. Whether she liked it or not, the Doctor would always insist, would always remind her: Ashildr, not Me. He owed her that much, at least.

Immortal and forced to live time linearly where the Doctor got to run away in his big, blue box and travel the stars, she'd hardened around the edges, learned far too much, and waited far too long.

She'd seen Death, and she had learned to sense when it was near.

 _"How many have you lost, how many Claras?"_ she'd asked him.

If only she knew. How many Claras, indeed.

His brave, little Impossible Girl. Well, little on the outside; _so much_ _bigger_ on the inside. Clara Oswald.

She was another one who'd changed. They always did. She'd kept the kindness, the curiosity, the cleverness, the control-freakishness, and the courage, but they were tempered now. Recklessness, arrogance, and pragmatism had grown within her over time, qualities that she had adapted from him. The Doctor hated himself for that, for the way that he'd changed her. She was more now, yes, but she'd also been robbed of so much. She could never go back, could never live a normal, human life again.

Her thrill for adventure and adrenaline had taken a turn, had been twisted and warped into something dangerous, something that was leading someplace that the Doctor dreaded. He couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was coming for his beloved companion.

And it was his fault.

Every time he heard her warm voice, Blackpool accent and all, every time he looked into those impossibly large and expressive eyes of hers, every time they were separated on an adventure, he could hear Time ticking away, warning him.

 _Not today,_ it kept singing, _but soon, Doctor. Cherish her while you can._

He tried to deny it, to bury his head in the sand, but something he'd said to Clara about Ashildr kept echoing in the back of his mind, lingering like a specter.

 _"People talk about premonition as if it's something strange. It's not; it's just remembering in the wrong direction."_


	2. Aftermath

**A/N: SPOILERS FOR FACE THE RAVEN. You have been warned. Also, disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who. It belongs to the BBC, bless them. I do not make any profit from this story and copyright infringement is not in any way intended.**

 **Well. I'm emotionally exhausted. "Face the Raven" was everything I'd hoped it would be: devastating, beautiful, poetically just ... It was a work of art. Others have, might, and will disagree(d) with me, but I think that Clara's death was perfect. She died trying to save someone without thinking about the consequences, trying to be the Doctor without remembering her own mortality. She was brave and accepted her death, even embraced it.**

 **I don't know - personally, I am content, even though I am also incredibly saddened. It also seems that we will be seeing her - or at the very least, an echo of her - again during the finale, so I will look forward to that.**

 **Before we get to the story, thank you to those who have favourited and followed Smoke since I posted it. Please, if you have the chance, leave me a review to tell me what you think of these oneshots, or even just to vent about the episode.**

 **This is for Clara, and for the Doctor. Poor man has to get through this week's episode alone.**

 ***?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?***

 _"Goodbye, Doctor."_

 ***?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?***

 _"Let me be brave._

 _Let me be brave."_

 ***?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?***

Rage and grief welled in the Doctor's eyes, throat, and chest, drowning his mind in white noise and suffocating him.

 _"You will not insult my memory. There will be no revenge."_

Her order pounded against his skull, stopping him from walking out of the bedroom where he'd laid her body to do Universe knows what to Ashildr.

No, to Me. _Damn it all,_ thought the Doctor, _I refuse to fight for her now. Not after what she's done. Let her be Me if she wants._

He stared down at Clara's body- her _**corpse -**_

Bile rose in the Doctor's throat and he swallowed it back harshly, but its acrid taste lingered in his mouth.

She looked so _small_ and so _empty_ and looking at her this way _hurt,_ more so than any physical pain ever would, ever could.

Her expression was smooth and calm, betraying nothing of the agony of her death. Her death, with her frame wracked in anguish, her voice distorted in that _terrible_ scream, her arms outstretched, and her head tilted back, though whether in acceptance, defiance, or just from the impact of the Raven, the Doctor would never know: that image was seared into his brain, branded on the inside of his eyelids. He would never forget it. It would haunt him until the day - the merciful day - when he would finally die.

She had known it, too, had known that it would hurt him like this, which is why she'd told him to stay put; his Clara, protecting him even to the bitter end. But he hadn't been able to bring himself to abandon her in her last moments.

... No.

If the Doctor was honest with himself, there was more to why he'd gone to watch than just that.

He'd needed to hold himself accountable for his part in events.

He'd needed to punish himself.

Her death, despite her protestations to the contrary, was at least partially his fault and for once, the Doctor had decided not to run from the consequences of his actions. He had owed Clara that much.

He had owed her so much _better_ , really.

So when it had come down to the end, there was no "Run, you clever boy, and remember." Not this time, at the end. This time, that wasn't enough. This time, he would _not_ let himself accept her forgiveness, would _not_ take the out that she'd offered him.

No running this time.

And when she'd turned down his "Stay with me," he'd stayed with her anyways, albeit in the shadows.

Stayed to witness her collapse as black smoke poured from her lips; stayed to close her half-open eyes, which, once so wide and expressive, now seemed somehow smaller and so heartrendingly vacant; stayed to haul her limp form up off the ground in his frail, stick-insect arms; stayed to carry her inside and lay her down on the soft, red coverlet of the bed in the infirmary.

Overcome by a crippling pang of loss, the Doctor sank down onto the edge of that same bed beside his companion and reached over to clasp one of her hands in his. It was limp, but still warm.

Salt water gathered in the Doctor's tear ducts and scalded his eyes before spilling over to trek shining trails down his cheeks.

He brought her hand to his lips again briefly and kissed the back of it before pressing it to the side of his face. Tears burnt and stung as they left the Doctor's eyes and a couple of them ran onto Clara's fingers, but the Doctor wiped them off with the sleeve of his jacket, unwilling to let even water blemish her empty shell.

"I'm so sorry, my Clara," he murmured, "So very sorry." He lowered her hand gently back to her side and leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment before he sat back up and surveyed her face. He reached out unthinkingly and swept wayward strands of Clara's gorgeous, hazelnut hair away from her cheeks with painstaking care.

She looked almost serene, lying there. It was the best the Doctor could do for her for now. He'd have to ask _Local Knowledge_ of all people to take care of her for him, but although the man was a bit simple, the Doctor knew that he had a good heart and that he would make sure that Clara was honoured properly. After all, she had, in essence, sacrificed herself for the man, even though ...

... but the Doctor would rather not think about the "even though" right now.

Of course, he would have been able to do it all himself as he should have, if it wasn't for Ashildr's damned deal.

The Doctor felt his jaw lock and his eyes narrow. His mourning would have to be put on hold, or at least relegated to a different part of his mind for the time being.

He stood and took one last, long look at his companion's body and allowed himself one final wave of self-loathing before turning away and resolving to not turn back. The Doctor took a full, deep breath and exhaled heavily before setting his shoulders, wiping away his tears, and heading toward the door.

He wouldn't insult Clara's memory, no, he wouldn't hurt _Mayor Me_ (he thought the name with derision) - but for whoever or whatever that had orchestrated that woman's luring him here and setting this trap with so little regard as to the consequences ...

... There _would_ be a reckoning.


	3. Blackboards

**A/N: Hello again. Plenty of inspiration coming for these oneshots, so I will keep posting them. I may end up writing about the Doctor and Clara romantically in an AU in another fic, but I think for this particular set of connected pieces, I will stick to the canon parameters of their relationship, and I'll also continue my focus on loss. I'm still not over Clara's death; it feels silly, but I felt such a personal connection with her and I just generally become very emotionally involved with characters in my favourite stories. Writing is a form of catharsis for me, so as long as I feel the emotional impact of her death, I'll be posting these XD**

 **Thank you to those who followed, favourited, and reviewed. As always, your support is invaluable.**

 **On to the story. It's shorter than usual, but hopefully still enjoyable.**

 ** _*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*?*_**

The blackboards.

He'd never really thought twice about them, never wondered why, in his current regeneration, writing things down with chalk on the smooth, dark surfaces was so effective in clearing his mind, in organizing his thoughts (whether in the real T.A.R.D.I.S. or in his mind T.A.R.D.I.S.). He was a Time Lord, for goodness' sake; compartmentalization was supposed to be one of his strong suits, so why did he need such a crude, tangible device to help the process?

It was only after he'd lost her, after he was forced to _pretend_ that she was still there instead of having her be actually _physically_ by his side, that he understood.

The blackboards weren't just a device, weren't just a soundboard.

They were _Clara._

They were Clara when she was off teaching pudding brains at Coal Hill; they were Clara when the Doctor was mulling over a problem with which he refused to burden the real her; they were Clara after her soul had been ripped from her body and she'd dropped like a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf to the ground, lost to him forever.

Sometimes, he forgot how much he relied upon his companions. Especially on her.

She'd been so brilliant, so quick to come up with ideas to help, whether they were plans or the ways in which those plans should be carried out. More importantly, though, she'd always known when not to say anything, when to just let him talk at her and fit the pieces together. She'd always known when to listen.

But _most_ importantly, she'd also known when to stop him when he went too far, when his thought processes devolved into either nonsense or fatalism.

She'd known when to tell him, _"Doctor, it's time. Get up off your arse, and win."_

Clara Oswald: the consummate teacher.

No wonder he was fond of blackboards.


End file.
